I stuff my hand in my pocket, and I find coarse damp sand, broken shells and brightly-coloured stones from the beach.
As I pull out slimy, popping seaweed and squawking gulls from my other pocket, the stench of the cold and dull grey sea fills my lungs, and I am grateful not to have a handful of freshly-dug, wriggling ragworm or the barbs of a cod hook claiming my thumb.
My sixties childhood comes sharply into focus as I taste the spray bouncing from a foredeck, rushing back ashore before the boom of the foghorn across the bay envelopes my senses once and for all. The replies of ships further down the estuary only serve to emphasize how late we left our return.
I stuff my hands in my pockets once more to find one filled with hot bathwater and the other with hot, sweet tea. I scoop handfuls of each out to savour safety once more and have rarely felt since.
My hands disappear finally into my bottomless pockets, and I know that what I pull out next will have new lessons for me, always returning to the strength and resources of a small boy lost somewhere along the way.
Fraser
August 2023